Desmond Tutu — A Light in the Dark

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In the midst of this pandemic, Nobel Laureate Archbishop Desmond Tutu has died. Twenty-six years ago, an international assembly of people living with HIV/AIDS gathered by candlelight in his Cape Town church, where South African activists pointed to their new leader, President Nelson Mandela, as a reminder to never give up.

Life-saving medications came a year later, in 1996. Protease inhibitor development for HIV took 15 years; protease inhibitors for COVID-19 took two. Blessed be the faith leaders, advocates, medical workers, journalists, scientists, and caregivers who were too busy helping to abandon hope. Without them, where would we be now?

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Christmas Magic

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A Christmas tree with an angel on top, decorated with candy canes and ornaments, with live red candles on it glowing in the dark, next to an elderly woman playing the piano

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1-year olds: They prefer crumpled paper to presents.

4-year olds: They beg for glass ballerina ornaments. “They’ll break.” They beg. I cave. (It’s Christmas.) Of course, they shatter.

10-year olds: We decorate in order: angel, popcorn, candles, candy canes, ornaments. After dark, we watch candles flicker and melt away, singing “Silent Night”.

16-year olds: Their friends come to see the candles. “Won’t it catch fire?” I’m 59.  It hasn’t yet. Entranced, they sing, forgetting their phones.

24-year olds (2020): We connect— from DC, Santa Barbara, Donner Pass — over Zoom. Even with candles, it’s not the same. COVID sucks.

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This Is How It Begins…

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Dominoes fallen over paper moeny

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Every year, our finances would look OK in December. Forgetting January’s insurance premiums and February’s property taxes, I’d think we had enough to “really make Christmas nice this year.”

Then, at what should have been a shiny start to a sparkly new year, the credit card bill would come. I’d realize the cuddles and conversations were what made me feel so connected, not the presents (now months of debt). Why did I buy all that stuff? 

All I wanted was for people to know how much I love them. Advertisers are selling us stories. We don’t have to buy them.

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Is There a Word for This?

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“How do you feel about your daughter(s) doing that?” people ask with furrowed brows. Sarah, 25, climbs cliffs. Sophia, also 25, is training to row a 4-woman boat from San Francisco to Waikiki.

As toddlers, buckling into booster seats, they always checked their safety gear. Today, they still do. As little girls we told them, “You are strong and capable.” Today, they still are.

How do I feel? I need a word… that means terrified, awestruck, helpless, and proud. I haven’t found it. Maybe “mom” should be an adjective — that anyone can use — as in, “I’m feeling very mom today.”

Sarah, the author's daughter, on belay on a granite slab
Photo credit: Ankoni Lowman
Sophia, the author's daughter, rowing an open-ocean boat.
Photo credit: Kristin Burtch, Instagram

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Love After HIV

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“My mother says your husband will probably leave you now,” my friend said, two weeks after I told her I’d tested HIV-positive. “Your mother doesn’t know him, or me, or even what real love looks like, apparently,” I replied.

My husband and I had skipped the traditional marriage vows, but that conversation showed me their value: “For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.” Thirty-one years later, we’re still married, he’s still HIV-negative, and our 25-year old twin daughters (also HIV-negative) are thriving. Sometimes, people’s comments say more about them than they do about you.

P.S. Thanks to The New York Times for publishing this piece in Tiny Love Stories.

You Are Safe Now

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At dawn, I took my friend on her 4th nature walk… ever.

“Nature scares me. I don’t know why.”

Beyond parched hills and a pier, grey sky melted into grey bay. In a eucalyptus grove, we sat to write List Poems. I filled six pages; she started one.

“I got overwhelmed by all the switches on the ground… Mom made me cut my own.”

I winced. “What else could we call them? Walking sticks? Doggy chews? Lincoln Logs?”

She sighed. “I remember Lincoln Logs.”

I snapped a branch into twigs, forming letters on the picnic table:

Y-O-U
A-R-E
S-A-F-E
N-O-W

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Leap of Faith

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We are alone on the quiet mountain where I stand helplessly watching my daughter Sophia (25). When she starts running towards the cliff, her boyfriend’s back is turned, but a split second later he has spun around and is running after her. Now he is only inches behind. She leaps into the void, and he leaps after her.

The 30 lines connecting their tandem harness to the red nylon arch of his paraglider hold strong, and they soar like an eagle, back and forth across the Owens Valley, touching down safely on the valley floor ten minutes later, grinning and breathless. 

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A Leap of Faith

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Why Was This One A Butterfly?

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At the memorial, the baby’s older sisters wept and clutched one another while her parents sat and stared, stoic and inconsolable, the mother fingering her rosary.

“When a baby dies, some of us might feel angry with God,” the priest said. “We might ask, ‘Why did You allow this to happen?’ Even I don’t know why. God gives us redwood trees that live for hundreds of years, but God also gives us butterflies that only live a few days. Perhaps it’s not our job to know. Perhaps ours is just to cherish them both as miracles while they’re here.”

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